The Killer's Origins
by PHLover213
Summary: "There we were, the three of us, and life was good." . . .Prologue to the modern-day fic "The Killer's Reverie"; Erik Specteur's backstory retold in depth, before and up to when he becomes the killer. T for a reason.


**Anybody reading this who has not yet read my other story **_**The Killer's Reverie**_** should go do so before reading this, otherwise it will make absolutely no sense whatsoever.**

**Enjoy, my lovely Reverie readers!**

**xxxx**

My name is, was, and probably always will be Erik Specteur.

My life has probably been what one would call eventful – I've travelled, I've studied, I've taught, I've loved, I've hated. I have, over the course of my life, experienced things that nobody else ever has. That's not a good thing, necessarily. I mean, my face . . .

We'll get to that.

I was born in a rural town in the year 1949 in Australia to a French father and a Norwegian mother. My mother's name was Madeleine and my father's name was Charles. My father was a builder and architect, though in the small town work was rare, and he was often away. My mother raised me. The first fifteen or so years of my life were rather uneventful. I developed a love for music and art when all the others my age were developing interests in sports and girls.

For the record, I didn't take an interest in girls. _They_ took an interest in _me_.

**xxxx**

Except for one. Her name was Marie Edwards, she was ten and a half months younger than me, she had a strong French accent, and she abhorred my existence.

She hated that girls liked me. I hated that she didn't like me. Of course we were destined to become best friends.

I knew her before I'd ever exchanged a word with her; I strode up beside her one day and walked in step with her. She simply glared at me. "Can I help you, Specteur?"

I frowned. "Acquaintances and mortal enemies go with Erik."

She smirked. "I'll keep that in mind . . . _Specteur_." My name at least sounded how it was supposed to with her French intonation.

"So we're friends now?" I asked. For once I didn't have a girl like a bubbling pool of giggles at my feet. It was vaguely disconcerting. I didn't even know how to treat a girl that I couldn't seduce with a few well-placed pet names and my smouldering dark brooding eyes look.

"No, Specteur, we are not friends." Marie said with a devilish glint in her eyes. She confused me merely with that. What did she mean?

Women are an eternal mystery no matter how vast a man's knowledge becomes.

Eventually, Marie and I became friends of sorts. She was the only girl I could really talk to without reducing her to a whispering, blushing mess. We went to a few dances together because she wanted to dance without being left at the mercy of boys that saw her as anything other than a friend and I didn't want to have to deal with the girls who thought I was playing hard-to-get. And we grew a lot closer.

"We could work together." Marie said one night as some garish swing music blasted from a rather old gramophone in the corner. I raised an eyebrow as I effortlessly span her in a graceful circle.

"We could?" I asked.

"You do not want the attention of every girl in the school." she reasoned.

"There you are right." I said, replacing my arms around her waist.

"I don't want to deal with boys . . . I want to focus on dancing . . ." Her voice was musing, thoughtful.

I smirked. "So we'll pretend we're . . . what's the term?" I saw a blush overspread her face. "_Going steady_?" The term tasted strange; I noticed a few girls look hopefully up from their dance partners to look at me at the sound of it.

She glared. "No, _Specteur,_" Now she only used that name when she was angry with me, which was often. "I mean we should help each other fight them off."

"By pretending that we're . . ." I smiled suggestively and she pulled herself from my embrace and pretended to retch, procuring a few odd looks. "Together."

She scowled, her thin nose wrinkling. It was obviously not what she meant. "Fine, Erik, fine." she happened to be near a table and picked up a conveniently placed glass of water and threw it in my face, ruining my perfect hairstyle. I glared at her. "I leave you to your legions of adoring girls." She bowed and slammed down the glass on a table as she left, her grey skirt floating around her thin legs.

I chuckled at her.

**xxxx**

I was placed in my final year of high school after year ten. Teachers told me that I was academically gifted, but honestly I had no interest in doing well. I had developed rather an attraction to the girls that were drawn to me like moths to the proverbial flame. In fact I had, at one time or another, been with most girls in my year. But all of them bored me eventually. They cried over me, they screamed at me, they told me I was scum for playing with their hearts in such a way.

All because I _acted_ enamoured but didn't actually care a hang for their feelings – what was wrong with that?

It was in my final year that I became acquainted with a student teacher by the name of Rasheed. He was roughly three or four years older than me and he taught in my Advanced Mathematics class. I remember the first time I met him and I was instantly annoyed by the friendliness in his eyes and smile. He approached me.

"Alright, Specteur?" he asked companionably, patting me on the shoulder.

I glared at him. I felt humiliatingly patronised. I turned back to my book. "Fine, thank you, _Rasheed_." I said shortly.

He chuckled. "I don't know why you don't sit your university entrance exams now, my lad. You could pass," he paused and cleared his throat. "Better than I did, I suppose."

His voice had this inexplicable fatherly quality to it.

"It's the middle of the year." I replied.

"Precisely."

I raised an eyebrow.

"W- well, no, you can't take them now . . . but – do you have any idea what you want to study?"

That gave me pause. There were a few things I were interested in – words, notes, buildings, people – why not study them all? I had my whole life. Or, then, at least I thought I did. "Architecture . . . music . . . anthropology, psychology, teaching, perhaps . . . I have an interest in the law too."

He smiled. "There aren't enough people like you, Erik."

Rasheed's approval made me smile inexplicably. I looked back down at my work, but I'd finished it ten minutes ago anyway. I smiled up at a girl across the room whose name escapes me now – perhaps something with an S . . . Sarah! That's it, Sarah.

She walked over and sat next to me. I gave a half smile to Rasheed.

"Perhaps you could study girls, Erik."

"I don't need to." I replied nonchalantly, wrapping my arm around the girl's waist and leaning closer to her.

"Erik Specteur!" cried the teacher. I smiled and winked at the girl. She blushed.

"Yes, miss?" I replied calmly, using my sweetest voice – oh yes, one thing about me – my voice is and always has been my best quality, even when I was handsome too . . .

Again, it seems I am getting ahead of myself.

"Do your work, boy!" she snapped. I smiled sarcastically.

"I have, miss."

She scowled.

"Rasheed, escort this boy out, if you would be so kind." said the teacher, turning back to the chalkboard. Rasheed smiled as I stood to follow him.

**xxxx**

"So, the girl you're always with."

Rasheed and I were walking around the outer border of the school, because nobody but nobody could find it in their heart to punish charming, sweet, handsome, friendly Erik Specteur.

"Marie." I informed him quietly.

Marie truly was my best friend. There were other people that I got close to, but she was the only person at the school that I loved.

"She's a nice girl." Rasheed observed.

I nodded.

The atmosphere was deepening and I didn't like it one bit.

"So, Erik – forgive me if it's too personal – do you intend upon – marrying a girl?"

Such a thought was so ludicrous that I burst into laughter. Rasheed raised a black eyebrow and continued walking around the boundary of the school. "I think I shall take that as a no."

I sighed contentedly and followed him. "How about you, Rasheed, is there a _lovely lady_ in your life?"

He frowned. "I was born in Iran. There was a girl I was going to be married with; it was arranged . . ." he sighed. "But . . . it wasn't to be."

"How sad. Find another." I said, trying to break the gloomy mood.

His face formed an expression of disapproval. "Erik . . ." he sighed. "_This_ is what happens when I open up to someone?"

"When that someone is me, yes, it is." I said with a sly smile. Rasheed slowly returned it.

"I think I will keep that in mind, Erik." he chuckled, a low, deep rumble. "Anyway, what makes you such a genius?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"You finished two hours' worth of maths in twenty minutes."

People fed my ego daily, how could I _not_ turn into a narcissist?

"I suppose it's easy."

He smiled in vague disbelief.

**xxxx**

I suppose you – the eternal you, the one whose identity I do not know, the one who I speak to when I am trapped within the darkness of my own twisted mind – want to know about my family. Well, as I already said, I barely knew my father. He was always designing in the city or building in another town.

My mother, however, was always home; she was borderline reclusive, and she wanted to live back in the city, where she did before I was born.

"Erik!" she cried, when she heard me walk in the door after I got home from school that day. I sighed at the unpleasant shriek.

"Yes, Mother?" I said, barely masking the distaste in my voice.

"Help me with this, will you?"

I walked into the sitting room to see her sitting at the grand piano with an open book of sheet music in front of her. I rolled my eyes. "Dear Lord, Mother, is it really that difficult to read?"

"Yes," she pouted sullenly. "Not all of us are musical geniuses."

There was that word again – _genius_. I wondered at it. Honestly, I didn't think I was smart. I thought everyone around me was stupid.

"This is Moonlight Sonata, Mother." I said, sitting down next to her. "I learnt it when I was twelve."

She sighed, frustrated. "I'll play the left hand." she replied hotly.

I nodded and together we played it. She looked distinctly pleased. Like any good, embarrassing mother she tilted my face down so she could reach and pushed a kiss onto my forehead. I frowned. "And how is my little Don Juan?"

What a wonderful nickname, don't you agree?

"Fine, Mother."

She stood from the piano. "It's good to see you too, my son."

Those words would later haunt me.

**xxxx**

**Before you get all snippy with me, Erik is a vain teenager with a normal face right now. So OOC . . . can't be applied.**

**Well yes, this is the first chapter. Thoughts, if you please.**

**See you next time!**


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